Many Unpleasant Returns Page 10

  You learn a lot when you listen. And if you’re old, many people expect you to be quiet and listen. I’ve learned a lot that way.

  Carla Johnson, for example, treats Frankie and Johnny as if they were little boys, brothers with distinctly different personalities who require a certain amount of stroking, along with gentle disapproval to allow them to progress toward manhood without going completely off the rails. She plays a maternal role, although I don’t think anyone would describe her as maternal. Not by a long shot. Perhaps she just feels the need to play referee between two men vying for attention in different ways — Frankie by being loud and Johnny by being sulky. I suppose if you’ve done that for twenty-some years, you’d get rather good at it.

  I must say I admire her self-assurance. Women like Mrs. Nesbitt use their sexuality, however unintentionally, to strike a deal with men. Carla Johnson uses intellect. Her enigmatic smile and unruffled demeanour suggest she enjoys her power. Mrs. Nesbitt has the power to make Mr. Nesbitt jealous, although he is loath to let on he is. He gets his way by being remote and sarcastic. He would never allow her the power of his naked jealousy. Paradoxically, I think it is only his approval and affection she desires. I was never good at any of these things. That’s why I attracted only stolid, unimaginative men. Miss Miller has power but I would never think of her as manipulative. She’s rather good at having her way with Mr. Simpson but only, I believe, because Mr. Simpson is quite happy to accommodate her. It’s not hard to see why everyone likes Mr. Simpson and why Mr. Rudley would be pleased if Tiffany found someone like him. He’s the sort of person you can trust in every way. It’s good to trust people.

  Chapter Eight

  Christmas Eve day dawned with a glint of sunshine off the deep snow. The roar of a snowblower created a cheerful background for the hustle and bustle in the dining room. Tim and Margaret carried platters of pancakes, waffles, popovers, bacon and sausage and, for the weight conscious, fruit cups, white-egg omelets and broiled trout.

  “I hope everyone has a good appetite,” Margaret sang out as she deposited a basket of popovers on the tables. “We’ll be going out for the great tree for the ballroom as soon as everyone’s ready.”

  “How will we be getting out, Mrs. Rudley?” Sheila Nesbitt pointed to the windows. “It looks as if it’s already clouding over again.”

  “We called the weather office.” Mrs. Rudley stopped at the Nesbitts’ table, her face glowing from the warmth of the kitchen. “The people there have assured us we’ll have a window of three to four hours before the snow begins in earnest. We have the snowshoes prepared. We’ll take the snowmobile to bring the tree back and we have the other snowmobile with a trailer for anyone who needs a lift.”

  “You can count us out, Mrs. Rudley,” Walter said. “We’re not going out in that mess.”

  “You’ll be perfectly safe,” Tim said as he stopped to pour coffee. “Lloyd’s driving.”

  The Sawchucks and poor Mr. Justus were sitting at their usual table, Walter having refused to eat at the communal table three feet away.

  “The last time Lloyd took us out, he almost ran us into a tree,” said Walter.

  “Almost but not quite,” said Tim. “The trees are quite close together, being in the forest.”

  “It would make more sense to have an artificial tree,” Walter said. “Besides, I wouldn’t trust the weather office. We could get out there and end up in a blizzard.”

  “We plan to keep a close eye on the weather and turn for home the moment it looks threatening.” Tim smiled. “Mr. Justus, how about you?”

  “I think…” Harry began.

  “Harry’s no good on things like that.” Walter fumbled with his serviette, sat forward, fork and knife in hand, an unsubtle reminder to Tim that he was not pleased that a plate had not appeared in front of him. “He’d end up off the thing ass over teakettle. Besides, Doreen needs him here.”

  Harry picked up his serviette from the table, fussed with it, then replaced it.

  “I’ll be right back with your order,” Tim said.

  “Aren’t you glad we came here?” Sheila Nesbitt reached for Keith’s hand. “Ever so much better than spending Christmas in our apartment with everybody else away.”

  Keith’s gaze wandered to the window. “Yes, I guess so.”

  “If we’d stayed in Montreal, you’d be off to the university every few hours to attend to your biology experiments.”

  Keith cut into his sausage. “Sometimes that can’t be helped if you’re doing research.”

  “I’m glad Edward doesn’t have to go into the university on holidays,” Miss Miller said.

  “I’m sure you don’t often get called on to check the temperature on your iambic pentameters or your haiku,” Keith said as he bit into his sausage.

  Simpson looked up. “Oh, not often.”

  “Keith is married to his lab,” said Sheila.

  “It happens that way with research,” said Keith.

  “Edward is fortunate to be able to plan his research to keep holidays free,” said Elizabeth.

  “The humanities,” Keith said dryly. “The cosmetic surgeons of the academic world.”

  Edward looked to Elizabeth, confused.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to offend. Just an old joke among scientists.”

  “No offence taken.”

  “Where’s…?” Walter started.

  His complaint was cut short as Tim slid into the dining room with a tea trolley and slipped Walter’s order in front of him. “There you are, Mr. Sawchuck, two slices whole-grained bread, lightly toasted with marmalade on the side, three stewed prunes, two poached eggs, and two carafes of coffee.”

  “You can take the salt off the table too,” Walter said. “There shouldn’t be salt at my table.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a little for my tomato juice,” said Harry. He took the saltcellar and placed it beside his plate.

  “You’d think the old bugger owned that table,” Frankie said, glancing over to where Walter was sitting.

  “Shh,” said Carla.

  “He’s been sitting there for several decades,” said Mr. Bole. “He probably believes it is his.”

  “Walter isn’t usually so grumpy,” said Geraldine.

  “He’s not happy with his brother-in-law,” said Norman.

  “Mr. Justus seems to be a nice man,” Miss Miller said.

  Mr. Bole nodded. “I agree. But his presence here is different and Walter doesn’t like his routines upset.”

  Walter took out his bottle of generic Mrs. Dash and sprinkled some on his eggs.

  “Don’t use so much of that, Walter,” Doreen said, biting into her marmalade-laden toast.

  “It can’t do any harm, Doreen. It’s a mixture of herbs.”

  “Walter must be getting deafer,” said Rudley. “I can hear him all the way out here.”

  “And grumpy,” said Lloyd who had stopped by the desk. “He’s mad because Mrs. Rudley put the tables together.”

  “I don’t see why that should concern him,” said Rudley. “We brought his little table back and put it where he wanted it.”

  Lloyd shrugged. “He just don’t like the other tables being put together.”

  “Mrs. Rudley believes everyone should eat together at Christmas for some damn reason,” said Rudley. He shook his head as Walter’s voice rose once again. “Perhaps I should go in and settle him down before he drives the rest of the diners to distraction.”

  Walter took a bite of his poached egg, then dropped the fork, his eyes bulging. He began to claw at his throat.

  Doreen scooped another tablespoon of marmalade onto her toast. “Don’t eat so fast, Walter.”

  “Is he all right?” asked Tim from the adjacent table.

  Doreen swallowed her toast before responding. “He doesn’t chew his food properly.” She nudged Walter’s
elbow. “Walter, you need to chew every bite thirty-two times. That’s what the doctor told you.”

  Rudley, having entered the dining room and taken in the unfolding scene, yanked Walter back in his chair, peered into his face and loosened his tie. “For heaven’s sake, Walter, say something.”

  Walter’s lips worked soundlessly as he stared at Rudley in horror. Finally he croaked, “Water.”

  Rudley grabbed the tumbler by Walter’s plate, knocked it over, reached for Doreen’s, and pressed the glass to Walter’s lips. Walter gulped the water, slopping it over his shirt.

  “There,” said Rudley as Walter’s face returned to a more normal shade, “you’re all right, aren’t you?”

  “I guess,” Walter rasped.

  Doreen reached for another piece of toast and slathered it with marmalade. “You’ve got to stop eating so fast, Walter.”

  “Cayenne pepper,” Walter said hoarsely. “Get Gregoire.”

  Tim ran into the kitchen and returned with Gregoire.

  “There is no cayenne pepper in anything,” Gregoire said.

  Walter pointed to his eggs.

  “That’s Mrs. Dash,” said Doreen. “I told you not to use so much.”

  Rudley pried the bottle away from Walter, shook a few flakes into his hand, and tasted them. “Rather piquant for Mrs. Dash,” he said. He checked the label, which read Jalapeno Flakes.

  “I told him he should get his glasses checked,” said Doreen.

  Walter wrestled the bottle back from Rudley. “I never bought this, Doreen.”

  “We don’t stock it here, Walter.”

  “Where did you get it, Walter?” his wife asked.

  “Out of my pocket. I always keep it in my pocket.”

  “Check your pockets,” Rudley suggested. “If there’s no Mrs. Dash there, then you must have bought the wrong seasoning.”

  Walter rifled through his pockets and came up empty.

  “There, you see?” said Rudley.

  Walter stared at the Mrs. Dash imposter, flummoxed.

  “You must have bought the wrong thing,” Doreen repeated.

  “Somebody’s trying to poison me,” Walter bawled.

  “There’s number two,” Thornton said mildly.

  “Who do you think did it?” Tim sat on a stool in the kitchen, watching Gregoire get the afternoon tea ready for everyone back from the grand Christmas tree hunt.

  Gregoire glanced at the timer and peeked at the scones through the stove glass. “I think he did it himself.”

  “On purpose?”

  “No, I think he just brought down the wrong bottle.” Gregoire checked the oven again and removed the scones, which sent the aroma of fresh dough wafting through the kitchen. “He comes here with a little caddy with his pills and supplements and the seasonings he knows I would not have in my kitchen if the devil had a spear to my throat. He has his housekeeper at home open all of his bottles because it is hard for him with all of the seals. So he would not know if he had ever used anything from that bottle before.”

  Tim plucked a piece of melon from a nearby platter. “He claims he has never purchased a bottle of hot pepper flakes in his life.”

  Gregoire sighed. “Walter’s eyes are not as good as they once were. In his heart, he knows he brought that bottle here himself, but he is too proud to admit it.”

  “I think you’re right.” Tim munched the melon slice. “He’s been a real crank this trip.”

  “He is getting older, his memory is not so good, his hearing is not so good. It makes him suspicious. Then there is his brother-in-law he does not seem to like.” Gregoire surveyed his scones lovingly. “They are as perfect as always. When everyone is back with the tree, I will be putting on a low tea that will make everyone forget all of their worries.”

  “I think Walter thinks Mr. Justus snuck those nasty hot pepper flakes into his pocket,” said Tim. “But I can’t see that nice but boring man doing that.”

  Gregoire placed a tray of canapés into the oven. “I would not blame him if he had. The way Mr. Sawchuck has been behaving I would not be surprised if Mrs. Rudley did it and I would not blame her either.”

  Tim shrugged and helped himself to a glazed strawberry.

  “I don’t know why we had to come out here again.” Creighton tightened his scarf around his neck. The wind whipped at his fedora, lifting it off his head.

  “You should get one of these.” Brisbois pointed to his furry cap as Creighton watched his hat sail off into the snow.

  “Looks like something you’d wear in Siberia.” Creighton snatched his hat back, shook the snow out, and stuck it back on his head.

  “It’s warm.” Brisbois looked across the bare expanse where the forensics team had shovelled and sifted the snow. He spotted Sheffield, the forensics officer, almost unrecognizable in his puffy white suit. “How’s it going?”

  Sheffield shuffled his feet. “Cold.”

  “Anything new?”

  “No. We’re about to wrap up. We haven’t spotted anything that would suggest the man did more than slip and fall. Tragic accident. So close to Christmas.”

  Brisbois gave Sheffield a suspicious look. Sheffield was known to be an irreverent joker at crime scenes. This time, he was all business. “All ready for the holidays?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Are you on call?”

  Sheffield gave him a grim smile. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean you have to find a dead body for me.”

  “You aren’t the only one hoping for a quiet few days.”

  “I hear you missed your wife’s gala and she had to sub as Santa Claus,” said Sheffield.

  “She didn’t have to play Santa. She had some young intern type at the bank fill in.”

  Sheffield patted Brisbois on the back. “Bet he wasn’t a patch on you.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, too,” Brisbois turned and walked back to Creighton, who was stamping his feet. “If you weren’t such a slave to fashion, you’d do a whole lot better out here.” Brisbois pointed to his Sorel boots. “These things will keep your feet warm to forty below.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “I could probably stay out here all night and be comfortable.”

  “Since I don’t plan on staying out here all night, I won’t lower myself to parading around like the Michelin man.”

  Creighton got into the car and turned on the heater, while Brisbois claimed the passenger’s seat. He took out a cigarette and started to crank down the window.

  Creighton stopped him. “Leave the window up. I’ll put up with your second-hand smoke.”

  Brisbois put the cigarette into his mouth but didn’t light up. He reached into his pocket, took out his notebook and began studying his jottings. Nothing useful in the car, he’d noted. Nothing unusual in the suitcase. A bottle of pills labelled Furosemide. Sent for confirmation. A Ziploc bag of chocolates, also sent for analysis. Glasses. A bag of Christmas gifts. His sister in England had been contacted. She said he’d called to tell her he would be coming the next day if he could catch a flight. Had hoped to get out that day. Bad weather coming and so forth. Mentioned he was going back to the Pleasant and would be stopping at the retirement home as well. Was going to do a little shopping for small gifts of appreciation at both places. That’s what the Santa suit was all about. He picked it up at a costume shop after he got the gifts. He thought it might be entertaining to wear it when he handed out the presents. She said Jim had a sense of fun and was a generous man. She also confirmed he was a bit absentminded and shortsighted. She could see him getting muddled and stumbling over the edge. She said he took a diuretic daily, usually early in the morning, to avoid needing to go all day, but sometimes, if he’d eaten more salty food than usual, he’d take an extra twenty milligrams later in the day, usually around two o’clock. She could see
him getting short-taken (as she put it) and getting out of the car. She could also see him seeking the cover of the trees. Jim was a modest man, she said, and very proper. Brisbois lifted his head from his notebook. Her accent reminded him of Margaret Rudley’s, although a little cooler. Margaret exuded warmth.

  “Five cents for your thoughts,” said Creighton.

  “What?”

  “I thought you might not want a penny,” Creighton said. “Nobody else does.”

  “Oh, I was just thinking about the statement Morton’s sister gave. She said he was a nice man, a private man.”

  “His fly was down. What a way to have your last piss. That’s a good lesson. Always carry a pickle jar under the front seat.”

  “Why a pickle jar?”

  “It’s got a wide mouth and a screw-on lid.”

  “Poor bugger.”

  “Guess it could go down in the books as one of the hundred worst ways to die,” Creighton said. “Well, he was a guest at the Pleasant. The place should come with a warning sign.”

  “Don’t start in on that.” Brisbois realized he sounded annoyed but he had to concede Creighton was right. Bad things did happen to good people there. We’ll kill you with kindness. No good deed goes unpunished. “Here today, gone tomorrow,” he said out loud.

  “Move along. Nothing to see here,” Creighton added cheerfully, easing the car back.

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “Nothing more to be done here, Boss, and I don’t want to get snowed in and end up waiting for a plow that will never come. I’m guessing the side roads around here aren’t a priority.”

  Brisbois turned his gaze reluctantly from the landscape. “Guess you’re right.”

  Creighton pulled off the shore road onto the improved road. Snowflakes parachuted into the windshield. “Look at the size of them,” he murmured.

  “Pretty.”

  “Except they’re supposed to keep coming and coming, according to the latest report.”

  Brisbois sighed, slumped in his seat, then straightened as his back cramped. “Maybe it’ll keep the bad guys in.”